


FOOTBALL FICLET NR 2:  Under a Brazilian moon (Kaka/Cristiano Ronaldo)

by Lobelia321



Series: Sun and moon [2]
Category: Football - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-21
Updated: 2006-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321





	FOOTBALL FICLET NR 2:  Under a Brazilian moon (Kaka/Cristiano Ronaldo)

_**FOOTBALL FICLET NR 2: Under a Brazilian moon (Kaka/Cristiano Ronaldo)**_  
Ficlettino: Two pretty football players exchange shirts at midnight.

 **Under a Brazilian Moon  
by Lobelia**

 ** _A sequel of sorts to[Under a Portuguese Sun](http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/466848.html?#cutid1)_**.

Kaká still wears his yellow-and-blue shirt, and Cristiano still wears his port-red shirt. These things are not visible, however, because it is dark.

It is midnight in Rio, and below them the Atlantic Ocean sparkles in the starshine.

Dolphins ride through the sky. The moon swims in the sea.

Kaká sits on a cement wall.

Cristiano leans against a waste bin. His profile is outlined in soft white, as are his cheekbones and the metal tip of his left earlobe.

It is midnight but the air is warm.

Cristiano pulls his shirt off over his head, inside-out, hand over hand.

"Here," he says.

But all Kaká sees is the moonsheen on Cristiano's chest. Cristiano's nipples are puckered knots, haloed by an aureole of lemon pips.

Something shimmers at Cristiano's throat: a bead necklace.

A wind ruffles the surf.

Kaká's hand slides along the sunhot wall and knocks off his caipirinha.

Glass shatters. Kaká's pulse jumps.

He puts his fingers around the hem of his shirt. His fingers are moist. They stick to the tiny nicks of thread in the fabric.

He pulls the shirt up.

He pulls it as far as his navel.

He pulls it as far as his sternum.

He pulls it as far as his Adam's apple.

He pulls it up over his ears. He breathes in the dusting of his own sweat embedded in the cotton.

He can't see the night. Inside the shirt, it is dark.

Then there is something warm on his navel. Warmer than the balmy air.

Stars dance inside Kaká's belly.

He doesn't move his shirt. He doesn't move his head inside his shirt.

It's a hand on his navel. It's a hand with long hard fingers, hard knuckles, soft pads next to the palm.

The sweat on his belly clings to the hand.

A thumb dips into the cavity of his navel.

Then there's another hand. On the side of his rib cage. Measuring each horizontal rib with its upward movement.

The hand reaches his underarm. It slides through the moist-pearled curls of his underarm hair.

It stops where the fabric of his shirt begins.

Then there's something warm on his face. It's hotter than the hand on his navel and hotter than the hand on the underside of his arm. It's hotter than ten moons and ten thousand stars.

He breathes against the fabric of the shirt, into the hot breath on the other side.

He leans forward. His breath meets the breath on the outside of his shirt.

Dizzy lizards skip on the inside of his shirt.

His diaphragm feels paper-thin.

Then his breath lands in the other's breath.

His cotton-wrapped mouth lands on the other's naked lips.

He mouths the naked lips. He smears his sweat-soaked T-shirt fabric into the wet mouth on the outside.

His own mouth wets it from the inside.

He opens wide and licks the spit-wet fabric of the inside of his T-shirt, and another tongue meets his from the outside.

"Mmm," says Kaká.

And, "mmm", says Cristiano.

Kaká's arms flop down. They've been pinned upright, into his sleeves. Now they flop, they flip, they fall any which way, they wrap themselves anyhow around Cristiano's head. His underarms rub up against Cristiano's ears, his elbows dig into Cristiano's hair, his legs lift themselves up and off the cement wall and around Cristiano's hips.

His knuckled nipples slide across Cristiano's puckered nipples.

The shirt twists and writhes, like a live thing.

The moon blazes. It hangs in the hemisphere like a navel orange, and next to it, the Southern Cross smiles its sphinx-like smile.

In the stellar distance, the sound of samba dissolves among the stars.

\----

Posted 21 June 2006.  
Typed directly into LJ. :-)  
LJ = <http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/467407.html>


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